


Superb Fry-Up (instrumental)

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: This is Spinal Tap (1984)
Genre: Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Yuletide, prior David St. Hubbins/Jeanine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: Nigel likes staying in LA and there are many reasons: David, In-N-Out burgers, drought, David, and non-lethal sushi.





	Superb Fry-Up (instrumental)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HerbertBest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerbertBest/gifts).



David is very, very pissed off about vantablack.

“Some bloody laboratory has come out with a paint so dark it’s like the depths of a well situated twenty leagues under Satan’s basement urinal. It’s blacker than the cover of Smell The Glove. How is that possible?” He drops his head dramatically to his knees. “How?” 

“It’s also technically blacker than Metallica’s Black album,” Nigel points out, dusting off his hands after swallowing the final bite of his burger. He likes Los Angeles, and In-N-Out hamburgers are a huge reason why. “So there’s that. Besides, you didn’t like the black cover to begin with, so I don’t know why you’re-”

David snaps his fingers. “We’ll re-issue,” he says. “It’s a perfect opportunity. And that reminds me of something. Where is my mobile?” He fumbles at a pocket and withdraws his phone. “Siri, call Bobbi Fleckman.”

A pause.

“Bobbi? Hello, yes, David St. Hubbins.” Another pause. “St. Hubbins. H-U-B-B...right, correct. From Spinal Tap. Yes. It’s been ages, yes.”

A third pause.

Nigel can hear Bobbi three paces away. She’s very loud.

“Well, do you remember when we did Smell the Glove and Sears and Kmart wouldn’t put that album up for sale with the you know, the imagery?”

“Of the greasy woman,” Nigel interjects.

David rolls his eyes with his hand over the mouthpiece. “Oily. Oil is sexy, greasy is sex- _ist_.” 

“Oily woman,” David says into the phone, nods. “Right. Well, Kmart and Sears are both down the shite-chute now, so last laugh, I suppose!” He jabs at the end call button. “Ha.”

“Last laugh,” Nigel says, nodding. “Even though we didn’t actually release that edition until the internet. You know, you used to think that the black album was dismal.”

“I did.”

“And you’ve changed your mind.”

David blinked. “Well, in retrospect, it was groundbreaking. Dismal, yet groundbreaking.”

“It was,” Nigel agrees. “I told you.”

“You did. You were right.”

“I was. And it was absolutely mixed properly…” 

“It was,” David nods, stealing a french fry from Nigel’s bag. “It was. Jeanine was _wrong_.”

“You’re staying at mine, right?” David asks. 

“Well, I had an Airbnb booked. I mean, not booked yet, technically.” Nigel had been planning on booking one, but hadn’t actually checked. The last time he’d stayed here, David and Jeanine had been living in a suburb and they’d had a room at some airport hotel, which was fine overall, but there was some sort of Doctor Who convention happening and Derek had been traumatised by a Dalek whilst getting a chai latte at the Starbucks.

He could stay at Derek’s in Silver Lake, but David had said it was too far out of the way. 

“Nonsense. You’re staying here. There’s a guest room.” David gets up and motions to him to follow, and they head down the hall to a door. “See, it’s very roomy.”

“Hmm,” Nigel says. It is a big room, for certain. There’s a dresser and a turntable with headphones on a stand, and a leather chair, and one of those fluffy sheepskin rugs, but no bed. “There’s no bed, though.”

“Well, see...that’s why it’s so spacious. Minimalism!”

“We’re in Kerrang!” Derek says via Skype. He reads the headline out loud: “Exclusive: Spinal Tap set to tour again, drummer search under way.”

“Go on,” David says.

“‘Heavy metal band Spinal Tap are reformed with’ Derek continues…”us…’and they’re reportedly holding auditions to replace their last drummer, former member of rival band Unsung Zeroes, Callum Berrycloth III, who died of food poisoning after a gig six years ago in Omaha, Nebraska’.” A shrug. “Well, that’s it. It’s just a snippet.”

“Callum was a lovely man,” Nigel says. “I’ll never forget his last words.”

“‘Goodnight, lads,’ wasn’t it?” David murmurs, stroking his chin. 

“Sort of. He’d asked if something was wrong with the sushi: ‘Is there something wrong with this sushi?’ like, was it old? And we said, no, and he said it was quite tangy, really, for sushi. And then he said ‘Goodnight, lads’, and then he died." 

David dips his head. “Tragic.”

Jeanine -- and to be honest, Nigel had nearly forgotten she was there -- twists her lips. “Can we get that drummer on the YouTubes, David?” 

“I don’t think we really need a sentient drummer, do we? Given the unfortunate…”

David cuts Nigel off. “We need one, for balance. Jeanine says-”

“Jeanine is wrong, as per usual,” Nigel spits back. “The drum machine is perfect.”

“You’re not _Daft Punk_ ,” Jeanine trills. “Spinal Tap can’t have automated drums.” 

“She has a point, Nige. We’re a proper rock band. We need-”

Nigel clears his throat. “I have a list. Of reasons why the machine is FINE. Shall I give it to you in alphabetical order?” A. It is awesome. B. Its beats are programmable.” Nigel’s voice rises as he counts off on each finger. “C. You can clearly...C...that it… D. Drums perfectly. E. Every time, and we need it because F. All our drummers Fucking die!” 

“F. That is a fluke!” David hisses back. “G. Gee, I H. Have to wonder, I, If you’re just insecure about adding an innovative new member to the band.”

“J…” Jeanine cuts in. 

“J. Jeanine, fuck off!” Nigel screams.

“ _Fine_ ,” Jeanine says, standing and pulling her sunglasses off her head and donning them. “Fine. I will. You two work this out, and I will fuck off. I have an appointment at the spa for a fish pedicure.”

“Fine!” Nigel shouts, and David jumps slightly when she slams the door on her way out. “I hope they’re fucking piranhas!”

“What was that for?” David asks with a frown. “Your face is all red.”

“I just...she gets on my last nerve. Every time I’m around her it’s...ugh.”

“You’ve known Jeanine for decades. You shagged her for six minutes once.”

“It was ten. Minutes. But I don’t know what you still see in her, to be honest.” Nigel braces himself. He’s probably gone too far. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you’re right. I mean, I’m no longer seeing her, full stop. We’ve broken up.”

Nigel is floored. “You’ve…” 

David nods. “Broken up. She was just here to drop off the crystal box.” 

“Crystal box? Do I want to know?”

“-she’s selling this monthly box, you know, crystals for the season, tarot,” he opens a glittered cardboard box with a moon stenciled on it sitting on the counter and squints at a bundle. “Oooh, Palo Santo sage. You light this and run around with it to clear the energies.” He looks up. “Oh, she normally posts them, but she has two clients in the neighbourhood and her pedicure place is around the corner so she dropped them off in person this time. She lives in Silver Lake.”

Nigel can feel his mouth hanging open. He’s still on the broken-up bit. “So you’re not a couple, anymore? Like, you’re not together?”

“Separated. Officially. As it turns out, getting married in the States does not automatically make us both citizens. We’re still civil, though. There’s no reason to argue. Well, not since she moved out in March, anyway.”

“Ah.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” David continues. “So we were having various differences and we got back together after that long break, which you know, and now we’re on a permanent break.” 

“A permanent vacation, as Aerosmith would say.”

“Pfff. Total hacks.”

“Are we done?” Derek’s voice sounds tinny through the laptop’s speakers. He hefts his bass and noodles the beat-riff to “Who Put The Bitch In Obituary.”

  


After the Rolling Stone article comes out, Spinal Tap books the 35th anniversary of the Tribeca Film Festival. They’ll show This Is Spinal Tap and the band, such as it is, will perform. The new drummer (not a machine, to Nigel’s great regret) is called Mantis Price and has played with a few acts. Well, so far, just with Threatin. 

Calls stream in:

“Maybe we could make another go of it, “ Jeanine says. “I miss the Beachwood Canyon house.” 

(It’s not like Nigel is eavesdropping, exactly, but David has her on speakerphone.) 

“Well…”

(It sounds, quite possibly, like David is planning on seriously considering this proposal.)

“...I don’t really think that would be a good idea.”

“I have to say, I’m really interested in how well you’re doing,” Nigel waves his phone in front of David.

“Hang on.” He pushes mute. “It’s Marty DiBergi. He’s left nineteen voice mails. I think he wants to do another hatchetmentary.”

“No.” David shakes his head. “No. No. No.” He grabs at Nigel’s phone and succeeds at knocking it to the kitchen floor, and the screen cracks. “NO.”

“You’re replacing that?” 

“Absolutely. I absolutely will.”

“You know Marty will be at that screening,” Nigel points out. 

“NO.”

It’s been five months, they still don’t have a drummer, because Mantis could _not_ play, and Nigel is still bunking with David. In his room, actually. The guest room is too...minimal, and the sofa in the living room is round and weird. 

David’s bed is also round and weird, but it’s larger, anyway. 

Also, he does a superb fry-up.

Nigel lets it slip on Howard Stern that he and David share a bed and surprisingly, it doesn't cost them any fangirls at all. The ones who tweet them now are _complete_ perverts.

“Apparently we’re ‘bicons’,” David says, squinting at the screen. 

“What is that, like big unicorns?”

“Bicons. Bi-icons. Like David Bowie. They know we’re not gay; obviously I was with Jeanine for a rather long while, and you had a three-decade groupie-grope minge binge.” 

“Oh, right. But we’re platonic,” Nigel says.

“Yes, these are _platonic_ mutual wanks and makeout sessions.”

“Sorry. You’re good at those.”

David rolls his eyes. “Certainly better than you were back when we did Thamesmen on Tap.”

“Definitely,” Nigel nods, his voice fond. “No question.”


End file.
